“Should I drink to going home too, my lord?” she asked.
“I will send ye back to Douglas soon enough, never fear.”
The woman—Alisoun—placed a plate in front of her.
“Ye were gone too long from us, my laird,” she said, speaking over Isabella’s head.
“’Twas nae more than a week, lass,” he returned, then downed the contents of his cup.
Alisoun was dressed in a simple, coarse gown and patterned mantle. Her shoes were a peasant’s well-worn leather, but this woman needed no finery. Her unbound hair was the pale of winter wheat; her even features and lush figure would have made her the object of desire in any city or court. Here, in a rough country manor, she would rule unchallenged over the lusts of men.
“’Twas a week too long,” she purred. Alisoun gave him a warm, slow smile. The gap between her front teeth bespoke a lusty nature indeed. “We will all sleep easier with ye home now.”
When she served the MacKimzie, her hand brushed the back of his neck.
The MacKimzie seemed to pay her caress no mind but Alisoun caught Isabella’s gaze before she turned away and the look was pure venom.
His mistress. No doubt the MacKimzie had long since bedded every comely woman within a day’s ride.
“What’s the matter now?” the MacKimzie demanded, looking at her untouched plate. “Do ye nae like Scottish food either?”
Isabella glanced at the meal placed before her with little interest.
“My most beloved friend lies gravely ill in the room above. I have no stomach, my lord.”
The quiet admission seemed to take him aback.
“I canna promise ye. Nae soul on earth can, but if there be a way to save her, Caitrina will find it.”
“She seems concerned enough. And I thank her for it, but she is not a learned physician who can balance the humors of the body.”
Colyne shrugged. “I never saw a man bled that was helped and I have seen many. Caitrina says purging, except for poison, is pure foolishness. I would choose her ways over any city or court physician. Methinks many on the battlefield could have been saved, were she with us in France.”
“You fought for Charles? Against the English?”
“Aye, I fought for Charles,” Colyne murmured, looking into his cup, his red-gold hair catching the light of the fire. “I have lands in France. Gifts from a grateful sovereign. Have ye been there?”
Isabella looked away. “Yes, I once attended upon the Duchess of Bedford. I accompanied the court when Henry was crowned king in Paris.”
He gave a humorless smile. “Henry crowned King of France in Paris and Charles crowned King of France in Riems and neither strong enough to keep it.”
“Henry is King of England and France.”
“Yer on Scottish soil now,” he warned. “And when a Scot asks you who is king in France, ye would be well advised to say ‘Charles.’”
Isabella sighed. “You are right, of course. I am to wed a Scot and I should not wish to displease my husband.”
“Where is yer man?” he asked suddenly. “Where is Douglas?”
She shifted in her seat. “Lord Douglas? To be certain, my lord is with the court at Perth.”
“He left ye behind to travel unprotected through Perthshire? Left ye to the mercy of the villains who prey upon the roads? When even the Princess Margaret herself barely escaped kidnap this year?”
“Kat became ill and we were delayed in our departure from England. At the king’s wish the court moved to Perth before we arrived.”
“The man you would wed and bed—he went without a thought of ye?”
Isabella spread her hands helplessly. “What could my lord do but continue with the court?”
The MacKimzie looked into his goblet, grumbled, and pushed himself away from the table.
“My cup stands empty!” he called out to his kinsmen, suddenly all cheer. “Who will offer their thirsty chieftain a drink?”
Clansmen called out, clapping him on the shoulder as he joined them, and Alisoun instantly appeared, smiling up at him as she refilled his cup.
Isabella jolted awake, her body stiff and aching from the wooden chair she occupied at Kat’s side. In the faint morning light, Kat’s chest rose and fell steadily. Isabella breathed with relief.
The previous night Katherine complained of a sore throat that quickly became congestion in her chest. Even after another of Caitrina’s potions, Kat’s breath wheezed. Caitrina applied a plaster to Katherine’s chest and plied the gentlewoman with yet another of her infusions.
When Kat at last fell asleep again, Caitrina touched Isabella’s shoulder. “I will have Mary make up a bed for ye.”
Weariness was pulling at her. Her body was stiff from so long in the saddle and finding herself clinging to the MacKimzie too fresh in her mind but Isabella shook her head. “I will stay.”
Caitrina jutted her chin out. “I will be here the night through, lady. There’s nae need for ye to sit here.”
Isabella smoothed Kat’s hair. “There is naught else I can do for them but sit here.”
Caitrina shifted on her crutch and her tone softened. “Dinna think what you do of so little worth. There’s much to be said for having one who loves you at yer sickbed.”
Isabella settled, keeping quiet so the two might rest. At some point, she gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep sitting up.
The pale light of morning showed through the glass windows now. Isabella got to her feet with a groan, rubbing at the ache in her back. A glance to where Sir William lay, his wound cleaned and re-bandaged by Caitrina’s deft touch, showed him resting easier. William had suffered a difficult night; he complained of dizziness and pain and could not now even sit unaided.
Caitrina had gone to the kitchens and only Mary was in attendance now. The girl was young enough that her figure was quite flat and timid enough that at times she acted quite simple. She possessed dark hair and strong brows and her brown eyes, slanted downward at the corner, gave her a mournful appearance.
Isabella sent Mary—her hair hanging free as no English girl would wear it—to bring her ale to drink and water to wash with.
“The laird wants for to see ye,” the girl said on her return. “Yer to come to him in the great hall.”
Isabella sighed. He had been surrounded by clansmen and raising his third cup when she had slipped out of the great hall last night. She wagered he was worse for it this morning.
Isabella drank the ale gratefully and washed her hands and face. She had the girl brush down her dress and adjust her veil.
“Watch over them,” she directed the girl, though she suspected Caitrina would not be absent long. “I can find my way alone.”
Isabella was grateful for her fur-trimmed houppelande over her wool chemise, and the warmth of her fur-lined cloak as well. Even by day the castle was astonishingly cold.
Isabella paused at one of the arrow slits to peer out. In the morning light she could see over the quiet rolling hills of the Highlands for what seemed like miles. No attacker would take this clan by surprise; this fortress would fall only if the castle was under lengthy siege or the place breeched from the inside.
What if her captivity continued for years as it had for King James? By the time James returned home after eighteen years of negotiation, he had spent virtually all his life as a royal, but well-treated, prisoner of the English king.
Isabella nipped her lip. At nineteen, she could not afford a lengthy imprisonment. What if Alexander Douglas saw fit to marry another? Alexander was reputed to be a handsome man and was young as well. Isabella twisted away from the arrow slit, fingering the fur lining of her cloak as she walked. What if the queen proved reluctant to pay a hefty ransom?
By the time she reached the great hall, her mind had seized on the image of herself imprisoned still within these grim walls at thirty, long forgotten by Douglas and too old to marry.
The MacKimzie did not look the worse for last night’s carousing and wenching. In
fact, he looked almost pensive this morning.
She curtsied. “My lord.”
“Lady Isabella.” He nodded to her. “Have ye broken yer fast?”
She frowned. It was her custom, as it was with most of the courtiers, to eat the morning meal in private. Dinners, suppers, balls, and feasts were occasions for public eating, not the first meal of the day. Surely he had not asked her here for that?
“No, my lord.”
“Come then,” he said, nodding toward the table set on the dais.
The MacKimzie offered Isabella a seat beside him at the high table. The hall was quiet and nearly empty. Isabella wondered how many of the castle folk were still smarting from the effects of last night’s celebration.
“How do Mistress Katherine and the knight fare?”
“I fear for both,” Isabella said. He put a plate with thick black bread and hard cheese before her. “But for Katherine far more. She is feverish again and I have never seen her so ill.”
“Caitrina tells me the woman is verra weak.”
Isabella felt a spasm of fear and tore the bread with her fingers.
“Ye dinna know me sister,” he said, filling her cup with ale. “Caitrina will stand in Death’s way and clout him on the head if need be.”
“I am grateful to her for the comfort she has already given them.”
The MacKimzie must have already eaten. He sat beside her taking nothing but ale for himself.
After so long a night she found that she had much more of an appetite than she expected. The fare was good, but simple, and Isabella was grateful for it.
“Ye can have more,” he said, already putting more bread on her plate. “I’ll nae have Douglas sayin’ I starved ye.”
The MacKimzie waited until she had finished eating and then fixed Isabella with a look.
“Yer prisoner here, lady.”
Isabella blinked. “Yes, my lord.”
“Ye’ll nae find a man within these walls not bound to me by oath and blood. Ye’ll find none who will betray their chieftain if he values his life. I dinna think even ye have enough gold to tempt a man to betray his clan or to face his laird if he did.”
It had not occurred to her to seek help from his clansmen, and, having observed his methods on the journey here, she was unlikely to try. She nodded in acknowledgment anyway.
“Mark you well, I am laird here. And all within these lands obey me, from closest kin to lowest villager—and sae shall ye. Until yer ransom is paid, I am yer laird as well. Remember ye are bound by yer own word to obey me.”
She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, remembering her oath on the road in return for Sir William’s life.
“Ye’ll be well treated here. I’ll nae chain ye or lock ye in a cell—unless ye force me to it.”
“I will not, nor will my companions,” Isabella said. “But it is not my wish to remain here any longer than necessary. Have you sent to my Lord Douglas with your demands for my release?”
“The arrangements for yer ransom are being made,” he replied, pouring more ale for himself. “If Douglas finds the means pay it.”
“If he does not, then the king surely shall,” Isabella replied, straightening her back.
MacKimzie laughed.
“There’s many a Scottish nobleman’s son still held in the Tower as surety for the ransom owed to the English king for James’s release. And he hasna’ paid a farthin’ to free any. I dinna think he will reach into his nigh bare coffers for ye.” He gave her a slight smile, lifting his ale to toast her. “Bonny as ye are.”
Isabella scowled. Stood on a table and hooted at by a drunken lot of Scots hardly showed her a great beauty. Half had been deep enough in their cups last night to cheer for a goat dressed in a lady’s gown. “My cousin the queen then.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps out of affection she will forgo a lavish Christmas court and have ye back instead.”
“I should think you would hope one of them pays the ransom quickly. Else you will be saddled with my keeping for years. And I will grow old and Douglas will not want me at all.”
“Dinna fret, one or another will find the coin to have ye back,” he said shortly, standing. “Ye know me mind now. Obey me and ye’ll know comfort enough here while ye wait.”
With that, he left her.
After a moment of deliberation Isabella followed him. She quickened her pace across the great hall to catch him in the alcove. It was a gloomy place without lit torches and likely colder here than outside in the courtyard, but Isabella spoke quickly to take advantage of this moment of privacy. “My Lord MacKimzie!”
Clearly surprised, he turned to face her.
“Aye?”
“A word with you, please.”
She swallowed; she was not looking to this with much anticipation. “I mean to offer you my thanks, my lord.”
“Yer thanks?” he repeated, his tone disbelieving.
“Yes.” She hesitated. “And my apology.”
“Huh.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s all this about, then?”
Isabella’s hands twisted in her skirts. “You arranged for my companions’ care and I have not taken the opportunity to thank you.”
“Ye need be thankin’ Caitrina, nae me.”
“I shall, but I thought it necessary to acknowledge that you have kept the bargain we made.”
Having observed the Scottish king during his imprisonment, she knew their time might well go easier—and their release won swifter—if the MacKimzie thought kindly of her.
“Ah,” he said.
It was clear he was waiting for her to continue and Isabella plunged on. “I should not have spoken to you as I did on our journey here.”
He nodded, his mouth pursed. “Now that I think on it, ye did give me the rough side of yer tongue.”
Isabella blinked. “I did speak rudely, mayhap.”
“Mayhap?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Ye called me a fool.”
Isabella reined in the impulse to remind him he had threatened to dump her dearest kinswoman on the frozen ground and set her carriage aflame.
“Yes, my lord, I did insult you. Please accept my regrets for those sharp words.”
“Well. I suppose I shouldna have knocked ye off yer horse. Tha’ may have had somethin’ to do with ye not takin’ to me.”
His expression was serious but she suddenly suspected he was inwardly laughing at her.
“My lord, I merely wish—” Isabella stopped a moment and started again, her voice more level this time. “I fear—I fear my words to you were quite heated during our journey—”
“Aye, and ye bit me too,” he added, holding up his bruised hand.
“Well, yes. But my lord, you were kidnapping me! Surely you cannot expect—”
He took a step closer. She tilted her head to meet his eye.
“And ye kicked me in the face.”
“I thought you an outlaw!”
“A proper outlaw would steal a kiss.”
In an instant his mouth was hot against hers, his beard prickling her skin. She was too surprised even to move. A few stolen, fumbling kisses in darkened corners as a young girl had in no way prepared her for this. She caught her breath at the feel of his lips, so soft and eager against hers, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. His arms enveloped her in warmth as he gently drew her against him. His scent was warm, like sunshine in a summer field.
His tongue parted her lips, gently touching the inside of her upper lip, and then she was yielding to him, every nerve in her body alight.
Nothing mattered now save he did not stop…
Her arms went around his neck. Her palm rested on the warm skin there. She felt the softness of his hair against the back of her hand.
He made a sound in the back of his throat, a sigh of pleasure, as he pressed her closer. His hands were under her cloak now, running down the length of her back, skimming the curves and valleys of her body. A fine tingle trailed his touch, down her shoulders
and back, over her buttocks.
The MacKimzie broke away a bit, his mouth a scant inch away from hers.
“Ach,” he murmured, his voice roughened and breathless. “But a man would be a fool to leave that honey be.”
She had never seen a man so wild and beautiful, so full of light and fire.
He bent toward her again and she lifted her mouth to meet his.
“Colyne!” Angus called from nearby in the outer hall. His voice jarred Isabella and the MacKimzie tensed against her. “Colyne! Where are ye?”
“Oh,” Isabella breathed, hit with the realization of what she had just done and what she had been ready to do…
The MacKimzie released her a heartbeat before Angus came upon them.
“Colyne,” Angus said, looking relieved to have found his clansman. “We’ve been awaitin’ ye, cousin, and the sun is climbing!”
Angus offered her a polite nod and Isabella looked away, hoping the gloom of the alcove hid her burning cheeks from his notice.
The MacKimzie barely glanced his way. “Go on, cousin, I’m just behind ye.”
Angus hesitated, shifting his feet.
“All right, Colyne,” he replied. “I’ll tell the lads yer coming.”
Isabella stepped back, but the MacKimzie spoke before she could flee.
“Ye’re a bonny lass indeed,” he allowed, looking her over. “I’ve told the lads and I’ll tell ye now—if I catch a man with his hands on ye, I’ll nail his ear to the stable post and leave him there for a fortnight.”
She jerked her chin at him. “Should not your own ear be nailed to the post then?”
He grinned suddenly, a wicked smile full of self-confidence.
“Nae, remember? I’m laird here.”
He walked away, so brazenly self-assured he did not even glance back.
Isabella leaned against the wall of the alcove, pressing her fevered cheek against the icy stone. The English court was rife with passionate—and often dangerously ill-advised—couplings. More than one court lady had been brought to ruin for the sake of a handsome face and a standing cock.
The MacKimzie is gravely mistaken to measure me such a fool, she thought, pushing away from the wall. A position of honor and a noble husband await me.
Another Man's Bride Page 4
